


Payment

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank realizes that Walt has been abusing Jesse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payment

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for a [Kinkmeme](http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=120073#t120073/) prompt.

The entire drive, the kid says nothing, does nothing—stares out the window. Hank doesn’t know what he expected—a full confession? Bargaining? Idle chatter? He isn’t sure, this is not in his wheelhouse. He has to play nice, has to hold himself back, or the kid might spook. He needs the kid—as much as he hates the little shit, he’s a god-send. Hank admires his luck, his timing; with Pinkman, he could topple Walt like a dictator’s statue. Hank feels hopeful, despite the doubts biting at him, that this will be worth it. The death of his career for the death of Walt’s, like some kind of suicide pact. This will be worth it, he reminds himself.

“Okay,” Hank says as he cuts the engine, “here we go.” He keeps checking, again and again, that Marie’s car is absent from their driveway. “Come on,” Hank unbuckles the passenger seatbelt when he gets no response; the kid startles at Hank’s closeness, and seems to wake up enough to slide out of the car.

Hank starts for the house, has to turn around to wrangle a slow-moving Pinkman forward. He plants a solid hand between the kid’s shoulder blades, a firm nudge every time he dawdles. He unlocks the front door, pushes Pinkman inside, locks the door behind them.

They stand in the foyer, Pickman stares blankly off into nothing as Hank tries to pull a plan together—things keep shifting faster than he can catch them, voiding ideas and plots as soon as they come. Hank had to come at this from the right angle, or his chance would collapse like a straw bridge. Hank thinks he’s got it, and—

And Pinkman is kissing him, lips shaking, the stink of gasoline rolling off him. Cold fingers ghost over his neck, his chest, and Hank is frozen. A hand brushes the zipper of his jeans—

Hank shoves him away, hard; the kid stumbles, catches the wall for balance, and tries to curl into invisibility. “What the fuck was that?” Hank hisses, face red and teeth bared.

“I, I was,” Pinkman’s voice cracks and dies, shaking arms hug his sides.

“You were what?” Hank pushes, voice low and dangerous with anger.

“I thought—“

“What, you thought what, Pinkman?” Hank is yelling; the kid flinches, full body, at the volume.

“I thought—I, I don’t know! Isn’t that why, um, you brought me here?” Pinkman won’t meet his eyes, bites his lip and concentrates on the carpet. Hank can’t remember the little prick looking so small, so pathetic, even when he beat him into the floor. Pinkman was a punk, a little bit of piss and inflated ego wrapped in an oversized hoodie. For a moment, Hank is not completely certain the kicked dog shaking against his wall is really the same kid.

He takes a peaceful, zen-bullshit deep breath, and tries in a quieter voice, “What the fuck are we talking about, here, Pinkman?”

“This! Here! Why I’m at your house!” Pinkman rubs at his cheek, eyes round with something like fear or hopeless acceptance. “Isn’t that it? You hide me from Mr. White, and I,” the kid sniffs as a tear slips.

“You what?” Hank can’t get the kid to look at him. “I hide you, and you do what, Pinkman?”

His voice is tight and small, face so open and lost, “I, I guess I do whatever you want, right?”

Hank tries not to understand, tries not to feel sympathy or disgust or pity. He wants to pretend Pinkman isn’t anything more than a stupid piece of shit in over his head, nothing more than a wedge to crack Walt’s lies apart. Hank does not want to feel anything decent toward the kid hunched and crying in his hallway.

“What kind of bullshit is that, huh?” Hank takes a half-step closer, “What kind of stupid shit is that?”

The kid flinches again, “That’s the way it works. I—he said you have to pay, for everything. Nobody does anything to just, like, be nice.” Hank stares at him, words somewhere beyond him. “I have to, that’s the way it works!” Pinkman says like it makes perfect sense, watery eyes finally meeting Hank’s.

“Pinkman,” Hank starts—he knows the answer already, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want it to be true; it washes over him, and Hank feels so tired, so dirty. “What did—” and it’s like trying to spit up glass. “What did Walt make you pay?”

Sliding down the wall, Pinkman covers his face and fails to kill a shaky sob. Fails again. Hank watches shaking shoulders, and feels nothing, numbness pulls at him like a wave. He can’t say anything, doesn’t know where to begin—this is not his area.

The sounds of choked-back crying follow him into the bathroom, rings in his ears as Hank pulls the orange bottle from the cabinet above the sink. He rattles the little pills against their plastic container, and walks to the kitchen. Cold tap water in a glass, dissolve pills in water, make the kid drink the whole damn thing, and wait.

When his breathing evens out, Hank hauls the kid to his feet; he makes sure to ignore the weak, limp way Pinkman grips at his shirt. Hank tells him it’s okay, that he’s okay, over and over until he lowers the kid onto the guest bed. Pinkman is out in a second, not even bothering with a blanket.

Hank listens to the slight snores, watches the kid breathe, until everything is bubbling around in his stomach like bad food. He wants to puke, to get rid of whatever it is he’s feeling. There is no time to sit with it, to figure it out—Hank needs to move, needs to plan. He leaves Pinkman to sleep, and starts packing some clothes for Marie.


End file.
